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Derec JonesAFTER ALL I'VE DONE FOR THE VILLAGE"She stabbed him in the legs, both legs. He’s besotted with her.” I lifted my eyes from the village hall plans laid out on the kitchen table. The dour architect had finally conceded and included a stage, and two dressing-rooms, male and female, one each side of the stage. The hall was big enough. Would have been nice if it was bigger but it would do. “Why?” I tried not to look surprised; after all, that sort of incident was part of his daily life. He is the father of two criminal sons, the younger openly declaring his ambition to be a “real” gangster, the elder in and out of prison and crap relationships with drug-addicted women. ...an old crusty tried to sell tranquilisers to younger members of the cast... He sighed. “She dobbed him in to the police for breaking his bail conditions. So did I, I had to. He’s got to learn somehow.”“It’s tough.” I said. “Well, will you come to the meeting tomorrow night?” He shifted his attention back to the important business of planning the switch-on of the Christmas lights. “Probably not . . . ” I said, leaving my answer hanging unfinished, hoping I wouldn’t have to elaborate. Truth was, I couldn’t cope with the politics, the egos of the councillors; one in particular - let’s call him Raymondo. I based a character in the play I wrote for the millennium celebrations on him. His catchphrase was, “After all I’ve done for the village.” Raymondo himself came to see the play. He didn’t laugh. Neither did the other councillors, except my friend, the current Chair of the Council. He was now bravely sipping a cup of aromatic Chai, made with soya milk. He winced at the unfamiliar taste, as we discussed the new village hall, Christmas lights, and wayward sons in the kitchen of my stone-built semi in the heart of the village. The Players haven’t done anything substantial since. I lost interest when, after our first production, a host of new members joined, most of whom were young teenage girls who wanted to be pop idols, and one, an old crusty, tried to sell tranquillizers to the younger members of the cast. Plans for the new village hall had already been mooted then, and as we were designated an official “group or association” we were invited to join in the discussions about what facilities should be included. But after five years and scores of inefficient, badly-run meetings, my enthusiasm has been killed stone-dead by the egoistical ramblings of Raymondo and his ilk. My mate, the Chair, however, is still going strong. “The phone’s been disconnected,” he said, “my disability money isn’t enough. I’m glad really, the boys were taking the piss. They never have any credit on their own phones.” “So, is he still out then? After you dobbed him in?” “Yeah. The police arrested him. Then they phoned me up and asked if I’d take him back. I told them I couldn’t guarantee anything. He’s a law unto himself. And he's got his girlfriend pregnant.” “Mad” I said. “Before or after she stabbed him?” He shook his head. He didn’t get the joke. “She phoned me the other night, about half past one in the morning, demanding to know where he was. They’d been arguing. I told her it was his life, it was up to him what he did with it. She gave me a mouthful. I put the phone down on her.” He smiled at the memory of his assertiveness. “Before it was cut off?” “No, it takes incoming calls.” “Not when I tried to phone you the other day.” I said. “I don’t know then.” “Did you e-mail that woman from the County Council for me?” He asked. “Yes, I printed out the reply. I’ll get it for you in a minute. Do you like the Chai?” “You know me,” he said, “try anything - once.” He took a sip and winced again. “Interesting taste.” “Cinnamon and ginger I think.” “Good for you.” He nodded his approval.  “The woman from the council said that the computers earmarked for the village have been stolen. The guy who stole them is up for sentencing at the end of the month. After that they are going to contact the funders to see if they can get replacements.” I explained.“You’d think they’d have insurance,” he said. “How are we supposed to update the village website?” “You can do that on any computer,” I said. “Come on, I’ll show you.” I led him into my office-cum-lounge and typed in the URL. “What’s that picture of the council? That’s not up to date. Who’s that with the Mayoral chains on? Oh bloody hell, that’s a few years old. Useless.” “It’s a community portal,” I said. “There’s nobody specific to keep it up to date. You have to register as a user and then you edit the pages yourself.” “So, will you be at the meeting tomorrow night?” “Um, I don’t think so. Truth is, I’ve had enough of the village. Don’t want to get involved. I’m fed up of people like Raymondo dominating everything. Just want to get out of here now. Been here too long.” I’d given away too much information, but what choice did I have? By Christmas I would have had to revive the theatre group, update the website, join countless committees and no doubt act as unofficial PA to the Chair of the council. “Ok,” he said as he left, “it will be sad to see you go, but after you leave, you’re going have to come back and stage a play for the official opening of the village hall. I’m going to hold you to that.” I smiled and nodded. “See you soon.” “Bye.” Derec Jones blogs as Skint Writer. Through his own imprint Opening Chapter he has published a novel The Three Bears, a collection of short stories, The Walker and a book of poetry, The Words in Me. The photo of Walsoken village hall is copyright Kerry Smith. "I remarked to one of the students I work with, 'Have you seen what's been put on the front of Walsoken village hall?' And he replied 'Yeah,.. I think Sammy Carman's alright actually'." Skint Writer is one of the new tidal wave of internet-based self-publishers; whether the phenomenon is a blessing or a curse remains to be seen, but good luck to him, and thanks for the story. 11:25 PM - 21/10/2006 - post comment
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